


Guilt Trip

by Remyroo17



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remyroo17/pseuds/Remyroo17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan comes face to face with her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilt Trip

Joan sat huddled up at the window end of the sofa, feet up on it and knees balancing her book. Sherlock was in his armchair, splayed out in relaxation and openness. His right hand bounced a little, holding the remote, fidgeting. He regularly glanced from the news to Joan.

“Watson,” he exclaimed. He expected Joan to jump, instead she just looked over at him as if woken from a reverie. “You haven’t turned the page since you sat down with that thing,” he told her. “Obviously you’re quite deep in your mind, and I find myself rather worried.”

She pursed her lips a little and took her glasses off, folding them and watching her own hands as she did.

“Would you like to talk?” He asked after a pause.

Joan hesitated, biding time to construct her thoughts into a more articulated manner by setting her glasses aside, pulling her book to her chest and staring through to the office.

“I was zip-locked to this chair. I heard a bunch of shouting in French. The guy rushed in and grabbed a duffel bag and blah blah and someone had been shot. And I told him that I was a trauma surgeon, I could help, because no doubt they wouldn’t want to take him to a hospital.”

Sherlock nods in understanding, even though he didn’t understand Joan’s will to help her captors.

“So I pretty much demand to treat him. And I operate with vodka and boxcutters because that’s all they have.

“And then… a while later, he’s even worse. He’s bleeding internally – and this guy is thingy’s cousin, right? And so I told him, I said I literally couldn’t do any more, and that he has to take him to a hospital unless he wants to see his cousin die on that table,” she says quickly, then swallows and takes a breath, clutching the antique book to her chest and not caring she’s crinkling the pages.

She was quiet for a while, staring over the tops of her knees. “And then?” Sherlock prompted quietly, television long since turned off.

She begins biting a thumbnail, one foot twitching a little.

“He shot him. He shot him and killed him right in front of me. I was saving his life and then…”

“And then your valiant efforts were wasted,” Sherlock finished for her. She nodded, clutched her book with both hands again, and sucked in her bottom lip.

“It’s just got me thinking. The patient I killed. Aaron Colville. People just seem to… drop dead when I try to help them. It’s like the opposite of Midas’ Touch. I feel like Ned from _Pushing Daisies_.”

“Joan, I do hope you don’t blame yourself. You do so far too often, in my opinion.”

“But I do,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes and hoping Sherlock mistook the gesture for tiredness and not for wiping her tears away. “How can I not? I fucked up with my patient. I could’ve disobeyed my superior to save Colville. I could have tried harder to stem the internal bleeding – but it scared me, the last one, it scared me. That’s what took him. What killed who I killed.

“And I was scared because even if I tried to save him, what if I nicked something else and killed him faster?” she wiped at the visible tears now, with her sleeve to soak them up.

“I was too much of a wimp to even try, so _yes_ , Sherlock, I _can_ be blamed for this death, because I know I could’ve stopped it or even fucking tried and I didn’t!” she was angry now, at herself, and sniffled as she closed her book and got up.

“And that’s why I have to move out,” she said as she left the room, heading for her bedroom.

It took Sherlock a few moments to comprehend her exit statement, but he quickly jumped up and rushed after her. “What? Why? Joan, you can’t move out.”

“Why not? I can’t be your crutch any more, Sherlock. You always say how useful I am to you, how, for someone who ‘lacks genius’ I have a remarkable talent for stimulating it.”

“Watson, you know I don’t mean it like-”

“Intent doesn’t matter, Sherlock! You’re rude to me. You keep saying you have faith in my abilities but when was the last time you allowed me to stimulate them? When was the last time you allowed me to use my own deductive methods? Huh? This has been a long time coming, Sherlock. I have to leave.”

Sherlock stared at her for a second or so before nodding and dropping his head.

“I want to take a box or two of your unsolved cases with me,” Joan added softly, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “To do myself. No input from you. _At all_.”


End file.
